Quiet Moment
by GrimMoody
Summary: Just a little story about the cathartic nature of fiction.


Quiet Moment

Even the shortest seconds that slip by are useful. You know those times. It's like when you're on the verge of doing some important task, and you have to wait on something before you can do it, like some bit of information or you have to talk to a person for research. Me, all I had to do was wait for the right time, specifically the morning. I have to be at work at seven o'clock today. Since it takes a half-hour for me to walk there, I have to start going by at least six-thirty. It's six-oh-five now.

It's a foggy morning out there. Kind of chilly. Unconsciously I slipped on my little knit grey hat, the one that used to be my mom's. My sister really thinks the hat is ugly, but hey, I like it, and it's warm. So I put it on. No sense in being retentive about fasion when the head has to be warm.

I really like fog. Is that silly? Everything is peaceful and dim when the fog is out; it's easier on the eyes with the moisture and semi-darkness. Besides that, even the simplest things seem like a poem when unusual weather is out. And the low clouds block out that bright summer sun, something I really need when it's around this time of year. It's been four years now , but it's still hard not to cry when I think about mom.

Wandering around in fog is so peaceful, I decided to wander out in it before going to work. I was pretty much ready for work anyway. I wasn't really hungry, but I knew I should get something to eat from the kitchen instead of meandering in the yard, that is unless I wanted to starve at the office until twelve. But there since the shopping wasn't done, all there was in the fridge was a pack of strawberry/banana yoghurt cups. Likewise procrastinated, the dishes were piled in the sink. I don't think I would have found a clean spoon anyway. My conscious nagged me to at least get an apple, but I ignored it and went outside.

The fog was even thicker than the window revealed. This was not going to be fun when I had to go to work. It was like inhaling a cloud. I coughed, trying to get used to it to no avail. It just thickened worse and worse, covering me like a giant envelope.

And apparently it mailed me somewhere. Dissolving with no real reason to, it cleared out to show that my neighborhood was gone, replaced by something that looked oddly like an extended graveyard. Little pillars, more intricate than a medieval palace's artwork, stuck up periodically out of deep blue sand and covered in intricate runes. I bent down towards the symbols and tried to recognise them. It was pretty easy to tell that they weren't human. In fact, they seemed to resemble the writings of the Protoss.

Most people probably would have been in denial at this point. Protoss are ficticious, they'd say, and this is all probably an illusion. I didn't bother thinking like that at the time, and it might have been a hallucination or something, for all I know. At the time I just looked around. It resembled Shakuras, whatever it was, with its huge expanse of blue, barren sand, completely devoid of land features like forests or rivers. A cliff was out in the distance, but that was it.

The graveyard lasted almost out to the cliffs. Hm. Now that I think about it, those couldn't have been graves. Dead Protoss leave no bodies. A better word for them would be "memorial", like dedicated to a memory as opposed to holding down the coffin of a hero.

Up ahead, something was moving. I walked up the gloomy way between the memorials; a huge spirit of damp grief was about the place, and it felt almost impossible to move quickly there. Eventually I saw who it was, and I stopped in my tracks.

It was Artanis. He was sitting mournfully in the dirt, not really caring if his robes got covered in the dust. He was so sad, just staring at this one gravestone that was obviously newer than the ones around it. Remembering Starcraft, I tried to think of who it could be representing.

Suddenly Artanis had turned his golden eyes at me, with a long tear dragging down from his right. There was no "who are you?", "how did you get here?", or "what are you doing?", he just stared at me. I didn't say anything. After a while, another wet trail stained the Praetor's face, and he turned back to the grave and just started crying. It was weird, because it was totally silent. Timidly, I walked up, putting a hand on his trembling shoulder.

Looking at the memorial, I noticed that it was very small. Unlike the other memorials, this one was mostly uncarved, just a trapezoidal wedge in the ground with a delicate flower carved out from the cold grey stone. Only a few sentences of Protoss language were engraved there, but even as I saw that, another grave appeared in my mind paralell to the one before me. That rock's lettering was in english, and I could read it clearly.

"Marlee Ella Fergusen-- Our Beloved Mother. b. May 12, 1954. d. September 11, 2001."

I don't remember when I started crying, or how long Artanis and I stood out there like that. It got scary almost, feeling like all the world was a graveyard and we were the only ones alive in it. No plants, no friends, not even enemies. I don't even think a kakaru passed overhead while we were out there. But it was a comfort at least to know that at least one person cared, if but that and only a stranger.

Like I said, I don't remember how long the crying lasted. The next thing I remember was standing all tear-eyed in my front yard. The fog was almost gone, and my watch said six-thirty-one. Wiping my tears and sniffing a bit, I started walking to work and hoping I would calm down before my boss could see. He was a nice guy, but sometimes you just need people to leave you with your grief.

My mom used to play the flute. I wonder if I can remember the song she wrote.


End file.
